Air Logic

by Laurie J. Marks

  This was the day Zanja realized she had become a legend among the Sainnites. She walked among them where they sprawled upon the hillside in their filthy, sweat-stained uniforms, their socks and boots scattered about them. She had run an army into ground and now walked through that toppled forest of Sainnites, barefoot, not even limping. Wherever she went, their gazes tracked her.

  She saw Clement uphill, with her baby son’s head inside her tunic. She already had mastered the trick of holding that wiggling body to her breast and gazing into his milk-drugged eyes, but she looked from Gabian to the exhausted soldiers, and that sight also seemed to content her. Of course, Clement’s struggle on her people’s behalf hadn’t ended, but it certainly had changed. She raised a hand to Zanja as she passed.

  Beyond Clement, upon the hilltop, farmers recruited by Paladins were cooking a gigantic meal in pots they must have borrowed from every nearby kitchen. Zanja spotted Garland talking shyly with a farmer.

  Zanja had heard that Garland had protected Clement with a wooden spoon. She should talk to him soon, but not now. The farmer he was talking to pointed northward and made a gathering motion. Were they talking about picking berries? Zanja continued across the slope as Garland and the farmer walked away together. He also wasn’t limping.

  Among the cedars, the members of Death-and-Life Company sat in grimly muttering groups, apparently under the impression that the rope strung through the trees was the walls of a prison. Two flags of torn fabric fluttered, tied to the rope at an arm’s distance, and on each flag was painted the word “door.” An air child ducked under the rope, between the flags. “Zanja na’Tarwein.”

  “Yes, Anders.”

  “Please, will you speak with Norina?” He pointed.

  Norina Truthken sat at a distance, her back against the ancient trunk of a cedar, gazing blankly toward the ruin of the House of Lilterwess. Zanja said to Anders, “Yes, but why?”

  He said, “Zanja, I am just her student. You are her friend.”

  Norina turned her head as Zanja approached. Her bristling hair was stiff with sweat and dirt. Her hand was clenched in a white-knocked fist. The dagger Zanja had flung at Saugus lay beside her, black with soot and blood. Zanja took and cleaned it, using water from her flask and the ragged tail of her bloodstained shirt. She polished it until the wavering folds in the metal were visible again. She said, “Your student, Anders, he’ll be head of the order someday.”

  Norina answered dully. “I hope he doesn’t realize it. Just as I hope the air children don’t realize they are teaching him how to lead them.”

  ‘’He said I am your friend.”

  “Then it must be true.”

  And indeed it was true, after a fashion. Medric claimed there was a long history of friendship between air and fire elementals, but Zanja believed that, as with herself and Norina, friendship merely had turned out to be the most reasonable, though not the easiest, alternative. Fire and air didn’t want or need each other, according to Leeba’s song—except for balance. But balance was crucial.

  Zanja said, “What’s in your hand?”

  Norina unclenched her fist. There lay a lock of J’han’s hair—brown, ordinary, stiff with blood. “I never understood why people save the hair of the dead.”

  With no little effort, Zanja put an arm around her.

  Norina began to weep. It was terrifying. Fortunately, it didn’t last long.

  She said eventually, “Thank you for rescuing and defending our daughter.”

  Zanja dried her own tears. She knew all about how grief would continue. Every day they would miss J’han’s sturdy patience and gentle humor, and they would never cease to feel that loss. She said, “All of us rescued Leeba, even J’han. Norina, can Emil recover?”

  ‘’Yes, don’t be concerned about him. Maxew shattered Emil’s patterns, but he didn’t destroy the pieces. It’s a good lesson for my students, to put those pieces back together. And if they ever are tempted to engage in such destruction, they’ll remember what it costs.”

  A wagon was arriving, laden with loaves of bread and yellow rolls of butter. Zanja stood up, for she was ravenous.

  Norina also rose to her feet. “You haven’t talked with Karis yet.”

  “No, the little time I’ve had with her, when she wasn’t healing me she was crushing the breath out of me.” And Zanja had a new scar, another of the many that marked where Karis had healed her, leaving a scar so that Zanja could read the script of her own history.

  Norina said, “Karis wants to go with you to the Asha Valley.”

  “To the mountains? She can’t leave Shaftal!”

  “That’s true, but not in the way you mean. Wherever Karis goes, Shaftal goes with her. By her presence that place would become part of Shaftal, and from then on it would be under the G’deon’s protection. And the Law of Shaftal will apply there, so if you go there with her, I’ll be needing a map.”

  Garland was at loose ends, and didn’t like the feeling. Some people had tasks, but no one needed his help. Despite his pain and exhaustion, he couldn’t bring himself to lie down and sleep like so many were doing.

  A collection of young farmers, gathered under the shade of the beautiful cedar trees, raptly watched the activities on the hilltop, where Karis and some giant Sainnites were moving an enormous block of stone. Garland wasn’t sure what they found so interesting. One of the farmers said, “Do you know what they’re doing?”

  She repeated her question before he realized she was talking to him. “They’re uncovering a well. I guess it’s blocked and buried, but we need water or else we’ll have to move all these people somewhere else.” He gestured toward the company collapsed upon the hillside. “That would be difficult.”

  She had approached him to converse better. She had a pointed nose and eyes with flecks of gold in them, and she held a half-finished hat in her hand that she had been weaving out of wet straw. “That’s too bad,” she said.

  “What? Why?”

  “We hoped they were rebuilding the House of Lilterwess.”

  “Well, they might be. Karis might start thinking that the stone she moves should be moved some more, and when she gets it to the right place she’ll be so happy that she moves another one. And before you know it, she’ll have built a building.”

  “So you know her.”

  “I’m her cook. She sharpens the knives when they need it.”

  “So you’re her husband?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The farmer burst out laughing. “Wouldn’t you know if you were?”

  “Not really. Ours isn’t the usual sort of family, I guess. Is your farm close to here?”

  “Not very close. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I need help getting some food for these people. The soldiers’ supply wagons won’t be here for several days. We can’t ask the three nearby farms to fed more than a hundred people for that long.”

  “I can help you, then. I was hauling supplies to the road-clearing camp, and I know which farm can spare what. I know where the orchard fruit is coming in. And the berries too. You might have to send crews to pick the fruit.

  “That can be done, once our people have had a bit of a rest.”

  “So let’s go. We can return with tomorrow’s food before dark.”

  “Aren’t your horses tired?”

  “I was driving a borrowed team last night. I only just fetched my own horses from the pasture where they’ve been resting since the night before last. I’ll get my horses and meet you at the wagons.”

  She picked up her sack of wet straw, gestured a farewell to her friends, and walked down the hillside, whistling from low to high as if it were a question. By the time Garland reached Clement, the farmer’s horses had come to her and nuzzled in her shirt until she found a handful of oats in her pocket for each of them, which they chewed happily while she cli
pped the leads to their halters.

  “Her horses like her,” Clement observed. “That’s a good sign.”

  Garland felt a rising flush, but she wasn’t even looking at him. “General, I’m going out in the countryside, I’m not sure where exactly, to get food for tomorrow. I’ll be back before sunset.”

  “Very good, Captain.”

  As he walked away, Clement called, “Garland, find a way to tell her you’re a Sainnite. It won’t get easier with time.”

  So the first thing Garland said, as he got into the wagon beside the farmer, was, “I might need some help with talking to your neighbors. I’m pretty good with the language, but there’s a lot I don’t understand about farmers, since I spent most of my life in a garrison.”

  She tutted to the horses, and they started forward. “They won’t be hard to talk to. If plowing wasn’t such hard work, they’d have started plowing the fallow fields already, just in case the G’deon needs a larger harvest in this place.” She was nut-brown, barefoot, sturdy as the horses in her team, dressed in plain work clothing like everyone was, except for a blue, tasseled cord that decorated her hat. Her eyes were as brown as the rest of her, and they were full of laughter.

  He felt a sudden, overpowering desire to cook something for her.

  “I’m Terys.” She said offered a work-hard, strong hand for him to clasp.

  “Who has the best butter around here?” Garland asked. “And who’s likely to be able to spare some flour? Or cider?”

  “The cider has turned to vinegar by now, but I know where we can get some excellent beer. Butter and flour, those are easy.”

  By the time the wagon reached the road, their route had been entirely planned, and Garland could have crawled into the wagon bed, and even if the road wasn’t famously smooth he still could have slept like the dead.

  But he perched on the bench beside her, because he wanted more than anything to watch how she held the reins with thoughtless competence and to hear her tell about how things had been before the Fall of the House of Lilterwess. Of course she had just been a baby, but she retold the stories of her elders with hearty humor. “The music, the arguments, the liveliness of the House of Lilterwess! The entire household turned out in spring and autumn to help with the planting and harvesting. Our kids could go to school there in winter, and there was always a healer within call. And the Long Night parties—those are legendary.”

  As she drove the horses directly into a pond that had appeared, tucked between hills like a wonderful secret, she said, “Every single person will ask if Karis has come to stay.”

  “I’m afraid Karis keeps her household in Watfield.”

  “In that place called Travesty?” said Terys with laughing sarcasm. “She can’t like it much.”’

  “It does have an excellent kitchen.”

  “An excellent kitchen is important, but you can build one of those anywhere.”

  The horses were drinking, with deep, sucking sounds. Terys took off her hat, her longshirt, and her breeches, and jumped into the water. Garland, having grown up with the rigid separation of the sexes that prevailed in the Sainnite garrisons, had never gotten entirely accustomed to seeing naked women. But even among the Shaftali, who were casual about nudity, he was fairly sure that when a grown woman like Terys took off her clothing in the presence of only one other person, it meant what he hoped it might mean.

  He tore off his filthy clothing and jumped in. It was cool, and rather murky, and little fishes began nibbling on his toes almost immediately. Terys splashed him with water, and he splashed her back, and he felt dizzily, ridiculously happy.

  Lookouts posted at the crossroads began to direct messengers up the Shimasal Road. At a table constructed of wagon boards and boulders, sheltered beneath an ancient oak tree, the government of Shaftal began to operate at one end and the command center of the Sainnites functioned at the other. There Garland met daily with the region’s farmers, who continued to provide fresh food to this strange encampment, even after the supply wagons arrived. There Clement dispatched work parties of soldiers—those who had recovered enough from boosters and exhaustion—to assist in clearing the Shimasal Road. There Emil, never without at least one unnaturally attentive child at his side, began to compose letters, with Zanja or Medric as his scribe. There Karis, usually with Leeba in her arms or clinging to her leg, occasionally sat down long enough to eat a meat, hear a report, or offer an opinion. There Chaen sat with her sketchbook and pencils, composing her vision of history. And there people gathered to paint funeral flags for the pyre, even though all but Chaen were strangers to the dead.

  The air children marched the demoralized prisoners to the funeral, then marched them back to their air-logic prison. A messenger reported that J’han’s body also had been put to the pyre, because of a note Anders had left at the home of one of the city elders in Watfield that explained the strange and awful situation at Travesty. Chaen’s son sat in the same cellar room in which Leeba had been imprisoned, visited only by Norina, given only a single candle for light. Every sunrise, people sleeping in the lush grass groaned, put their shirts over their faces, and fell asleep again. Karis and her company of giants, having uncovered and rebuilt the well, moved other massive stones as well, just for the fun of it, some speculated, though Garland claimed he knew exactly what Karis was doing. A cobbler arrived, and a blacksmith also, and people and horses were re-shod. There was an orgy of mending, accompanied by many negotiations over the possession of needle and thread. Leeba sometimes could tolerate being out of contact with Karis, and one afternoon she even played for a while with some farm children.

  A day was set to return to Hanishport. Chaen, still undecided about which direction to turn, discovered that everyone assumed she’d continue to assist in rehabilitating Death-and-Life Company. She’d get food and shelter, Seth pointed out, and that logic proved impossible to argue with. She sought out Anders, whose awkward and unnatural politeness she found endearing, and told him she’d continue to serve as a friend to the prisoners. He thanked her very much and promised to tell Norina of her decision.

  So she would go back to Hanishport. But she reminded herself that she could step off this path anytime she wanted.

  Chaen awoke before dawn because she heard Sainnite-shod horses arriving. Some day, she thought, that sound might cease to seem ominous. She lay awake, her bones aching, troubled by someone’s snoring, uselessly wondering if she would be able to watch quietly while her son was executed for his crimes.

  As the light rose, the camp became boisterous. Everyone packed and loaded their belongings, and bid farewell to the farmers who had supplied them with fresh meat and vegetables. Chaen sat with her knapsack at hand, her blankets rolled and tied. With her sketchbook across her knees, she drew what she could remember of Maxew’s face. She kept an eye on the hilltop, where the Paladins had been bathing. When they hastily started down the hill, still buttoning their waistcoats and tying back their hair, Chaen stood up. She felt like she was diving into water so deep that it crushed her lungs. Seth came up and clasped her arm. Chaen said, “If I stand still, will I stop time?”

  “Chaen, you must show him that, even if all else ends, love endures.”

  “That might be the last lesson of his life—and I’m afraid he won’t learn it.”

  “But Norina learned it,” Seth said. “So can he.”

  They walked to the table, where Karis, Zanja, Emil, the air children, and a collection of witnesses had gathered. Norina approached, with Maxew following jerkily behind her, as if he resisted every step.

  Norina muttered a command, and Maxew halted. He stared at the children, who stared back at him. Norina began to explain the rule of law. Chaen finished drawing her son. He had a chin like hers, eyes like his father’s, wavy light brown hair like most Midlanders, and anger and arrogance that were his alone.

  When she glanced up from the page to check
the length of his nose, Maxew was looking at her. Her heart recalled him, a boy both wise and stupid. Perhaps she had loved him by effort of will, but sometimes, surely, she had loved him with pride and hope.

  Norina was saying, “. . . therefore, I cannot permit him to speak for himself. But we have witnesses to his other crimes.”

  Maxew looked away. Chaen corrected his nose in her sketch, but she could not easily depict what she had seen in her son’s eyes. Angry pride, yes—but also the burden of his solitary days in the lightless cellar, the only place secure enough and solitary enough to imprison a person like him. Had he, after all, been able to learn something there?

  Norina paused. “To my students, I say this: one day, each of you will be confronted by a decision that requires you to put the needs of the land above your own need to be right. Until you can accept that humiliation, you cannot be a Truthken.”

  Zanja na’Tarwein’s self-control certainly rivaled Norina’s, but Chaen saw an ironic expression briefly cross her face.

  The Truthken said, “Emil Paladin, it is time for your testimony.”

  Emil rose to his feet, and in sentences that now had two levels of complexity, recounted what Maxew had done to him. Then Zanja stood up and said some of what he could not remember.

  When she had finished, Norina said, “By my vows as a Truthken, I declare these statements to be accurate and truthful. Do the witnesses have any questions?”

  One of the farmers, who had been supplying food to this unexpected crowd, and was now recruited into this alien proceeding, asked uncertainly, “Madam Truthken, did you say that the penalty for these crimes is death? The boy can’t make the choice? But that isn’t how the law works.”

  “You are correct. But since air witches can’t be changed, and can only be imprisoned under cruel conditions, they must be put to death. So says the Law of Shaftal.”

  “But he is so young!”

  “Yes. His judgment isn’t fully developed, and he acted under the influence of an older air witch who is now dead. Nevertheless, he has unlawfully used air logic.”